


in my hand

by sinequanon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Gen, Supernatural Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: The pack thinks Stiles is a demon. He isn't. That's their first mistake.





	in my hand

Stiles knew something was wrong as soon as he opened his eyes. It had nothing to do with how he's in the hospital (again), and everything to do with the electricity underneath his shoulder blades and his lack of visitors.

His dad, he could understand, because sometimes things happen and his dad has to go to work, even if he doesn't want to leave Stiles.

That doesn't excuse everyone else, though. So what's going on?

He's considering asking if Melissa is on duty, to see if she can help him, when he remembers how he ended up here in the first place: his friends. Or former friends, really.

He doesn't even want to know who came up with the horrendous plan to exorcise him, like a demon, but considering the amount of Latin and water thrown in his face, Lydia played at least some part in the plot.

How they had managed to decide he was a demon, of all things, was anyone's guess. Deaton didn't even know what he was, but the emissary was smart enough to let indeterminate powers alone. He had spent enough time with Mrs. Yukimura after the nogitsune incident for her to at least suspect the truth, but she would never go against him. Peter might have started the rumor, just to stir things up, but he wouldn't have done anything that would put him in the hospital. No one new had come to town over the past few weeks, so that meant that the rest of the pack had somehow decided to get rid of him on their own.

Lovely. Because that couldn't go horribly wrong at all.

He supposed he could see how it happened. After all, the Stiles that came home from college was, at least outwardly, markedly different from high school Stiles. He was calmer, more self-assured, and less willing to deal with other people's foolishness. He learned self-defense, got tattoos, and made friends around the globe.

He knew that the pack could literally smell the power unfurling ( _like a summer rainstorm,_ according to Peter) across his skin, but he hadn't realized they were frightened enough to try and kill him.

He’d like to blame some sort of spell or enchantment for the pack’s actions, but he had seen the ferocity in Derek's eyes as he and Boyd had held him down; he could still hear the patronizing way that Scott had announced to the room that it was too dangerous for everyone for Stiles to have too much power, and that it was their duty to protect him from himself. After all, no one wanted to deal with another nogitsune, or anything similar.

Which was understandable, except that Stiles hadn't exhibited any signs of possession, and no one had tried to have a conversation with him about it before attacking him.

And to think, Scott was supposed to be the king of mediation.

Unfortunately, when the exorcism failed, the pack started to panic. Rather than assume that Stiles meant them no harm--especially as he had made no move to defend himself against their threats--they held him hostage in an attempt to goad the monster wearing Stiles's skin into revealing itself.

For days, they gave him minimal food and water, punched him and scratched him with their claws. He gave them nothing, because there was nothing to give, no matter how many times Scott or Derek snarled in his face. By the time his dad found him, Erica and Isaac were both voicing their concerns, but the damage had already been done.

(Stiles could hear his brother's voice calling to him, and it took everything in him not to given in and follow it.)

A quick glance at the board on the wall showed that he had been in the hospital for a week--nearly as long as he had been imprisoned--but other than some lingering aches and pains, he had recovered nicely.

His shoulder blades tingled again, and he sighed. He _longed_ to let go, but this was neither the time nor the place, and he wanted to make sure that his dad understood the situation before he dealt with the pack.

<> <>

Twelve of them chose to fall. With Father's blessing, they lived countless lives, watching and protecting the souls around them. They were kings and beggars, witches and warriors. They lived and learned and loved. It was terrible and wonderful, all at once. Stiles had never regretted his choice.

His dad had taken the news as expected in the Stilinski way: brief disbelief followed by grudging acceptance and, after some thought, genuine curiosity.

Finally, “So, what you're telling me is that you're ancient, but you still call _me_ ‘old man’?”

Stiles laughed. “I've always liked the irony. But, you know you _are_ still my dad. Nothing will ever change that.”

(Stiles could definitely say that this life? Truly had the best hugs.)

<> <>

“The prophecy,” Stiles explained one morning over breakfast, “says that when the day comes that eight of the guardians have returned to their Father crying for retribution, that the Horsemen will be loosed upon the world.”

“How does that work?”

“Every time we die, we are given a choice: live again, or return to our Father. Three have chosen to return so far.”

“Why?”

Stiles sighed, thinking of exactly how Matthias and Nathaniel had suffered as humans. They had all understood their brothers’ decisions to return home. Not to mention poor Zariel, who had been so neglected and lonely. “They left, because for them, the joys of the world were outweighed by its horrors.”

The two of them ate quietly for a few minutes, and then his dad asked, “Do you...do you wish you would have died?”

Stiles sighed again, heavily this time, but shook his head. “No, but I'm going to teach the pack not to meddle in affairs that they don't understand. For all the time that we spent saving the werewolves from people who want to kill them simply for being werewolves, they lashed out at me in just the same way.” He scowled. “It's like they've learned nothing.”

“Well, they are just human,” his dad said cheekily. Stiles snorted into his cereal.

(That? His father's happiness? Only one of the reasons why Stiles chose to live.)

<> <>

Stiles waited.

He was in no hurry. The pack had caught him unawares the first time, but it would not happen again. He payed them no mind as they scrambled about, trying to decide how to neutralize him without prompting the wrath of the Sheriff's department.

(After the incident, Stiles had chosen not to press charges, but that didn't stop the deputies from having a heyday ticketing members of the pack for everything from jaywalking to littering.)

Not everyone had been there the night of the exorcism, he knew. He hadn't seen Malia, Peter, Allison, or Chris, and he knew from his dad that all of them had come by the hospital while he was sleeping. Stiles had no idea what the pack had told them, but if the increasingly elaborate gifts left on his doorstep were any indication, Peter didn't care, and the “get well soon” venison stew suggested that the Argents didn't, either.

Malia simply said, “I think you smell _good_ ,” and left it at that.

It wasn't like the rest of the pack forgot about him; Stiles could feel the ping of various spells thrown his way, but they were easy enough to ignore. He would deal with them when he was ready. Besides, the part of him that was human was sort of enjoying their floundering, and he would be the first to admit that he had lived enough lifetimes that he was more human than angel, sometimes.

Three months after his hospital stay, Stiles decided that the game had gone on long enough, and popped himself over to the Hale house at a time when he knew that most of them would be present.

He also laughed when he appeared in the middle of a shamanic ceremony, designed to cleanse the area of _him_ , no doubt.

It was pretty amusing actually, the way that each of the weres tensed as they sensed his presence, but, under the shaman’s orders, couldn't move from the circle; while the shaman merely quirked his eyebrow at Stiles and continued his work.

Stiles had to admire his ability to maintain his focus over all of that growling, as well as Allison’s ability to keep herself upright while laughing like a loon. Seriously, if Allison didn't calm down soon, Stiles was worried she might pass out.

Stiles pushed away from the wall as the man finished, moving through the circle until he was standing before the old man.

“You look a lot younger than I expected,” the man said with a smile.

“You look a lot older than I remember,” Stiles countered.

“It's been awhile,” the man agreed. “You don't call, you don't write…”

“Most people are against children playing with fire,” Stiles teased. He never had gotten a handle on that smoke signal thing.

“Try the internet, dummy,” the shaman said with a smirk, and Stiles pulled him into a warm embrace. “It's been too long, old friend. I can't believe they wanted me to exorcise _you_ ,” he added, still ignoring the growling around them. “As if I could.”

“Hey!” Erica called, still wary of moving out of her spot. “Are you going to help us get rid of him, or what?”

“I don't think our lovely shaman is going to do anything to Stiles,” Peter said from his corner.

“Can he control other people now?” Scott wondered aloud. Derek paled. “Let him go!” the alpha yelled at Stiles, hoping to separate him from the old man.

The shaman turned to pin Scott with a look that had all of the wolves freezing in place. “We were brothers once, in another life, Sammael and I. I cannot move against him.”

“But--”

“You are playing with powers beyond your ken,” he told them. “Take care not to anger those who would smite you for your impertinence.”

Behind him, Peter made a considering noise, and Chris sounded like he was choking, but Stiles didn't bother to turn around to check. Someone would give him the heimlich if necessary, Stiles was sure.

“You need to come for a visit,” the old man instructed the angel, pulling him into yet another hug. “We’ll fatten you up. You are too skinny to be a mighty warrior.”

A snort that time--probably from Erica--but Stiles ignored it. She’d learn soon enough.

Without looking back at the pack, the shaman nodded at Stiles and walked away.

<> <>

“So, I think that I've been incredibly lenient considering the circumstances,” Stiles began as soon as the other man was gone, “but now’s the time for you to face the consequences of your actions.”

“You can't do this,” Scott sneered, just as Kira asked, “What happened to you?”

“First of all, Scott, you don't even know what I'm going to do; and second, Kira, your pack tried to _kill_ me. You should know, you were there. I think I have the right to be a little angry.”

“We're sorry, Stiles, but--” Lydia began.

“That's just it,” he interrupted, brushing his hand sideways in a way that made all of the circle’s contents sweep toward the wall, “you aren't sorry. You found something more powerful than you that you couldn't control, so you wanted to be rid of it. You assumed, because it was in me--weak, human Stiles--that it didn't belong there. And somehow, your superior supernatural instincts turned that into, ‘it's evil, let's kill it’.”

Derek tried to step toward Stiles, only to find his feet stuck firmly to the ground. He snarled, “You smell like dirt and electricity. That's not normal.”

“He smells like a thunderstorm,” Chris countered, and everyone turned to him in surprise. “Well, he does. There's nothing evil about that.”

“Deaton doesn't like it when I bring you up, Stiles. And, Lydia,” he glanced at the banshee, “says you feel different. That means something.”

“Maybe it means you should mind your own business,” Malia suggested.

“I'm not going to let a danger to my pack roam free, Stiles,” Scott growled.

“Really?” he drawled, not bothering to mention all of the other times that Scott had granted an enemy its freedom. “Well, there's good news and there's bad news. The good news is, I'm not a threat to you. That bad news is, I'm not going to bother protecting you anymore.”

Lydia scoffed, and Derek rolled his eyes. “Research does not count as protection, Stiles.”

Stiles gently slid Allison and Boyd, who were closest to him, out of the way and closed his eyes. He reached for the tingling in his shoulder blades and, with a vicious smile, let the power go.

“Unfortunately,” he said over their cries, “I can't show you more than this because it would quite literally blow your minds.”

He took a moment to enjoy the feel of his wings, out for the first time in this life, before turning back to the pack, who were trembling where they stood, blood starting to come out of their ears and noses.

“You want to go to your knees, but you can't, no matter how much your body begs for it,” he said simply. He glanced at the Argents, and Peter and Malia, who were staring but unharmed, and gave them a solemn nod.

 _You can leave now, if you want,_ it said _._

None of them moved.

“Long ago, I chose to be an observer, a protector,” he finally sent the pack to its knees, “but only for those who deserve it. When the day comes for you to be judged, Scott McCall, you will stand alone. I no longer fight for you and yours.”

“Does this mean I get to worship you for real now, Stiles?” Peter asked silkily, eyeing his wings with interest.

“No, you big creep,” he snapped. It didn't stop Peter, Malia, Allison, or Chris from following him out the door.

<> <>

Years later, when Death came for the McCall pack, Stiles and his makeshift family were happier and healthier than they’d ever been, far away from Beacon Hills.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the poem "The Seed-Shop" by Muriel Stuart.
> 
> Next week: My fingers are tired after so much posting, so let me just say that I appreciate all of my readers, have a lovely September, and thank you for reading!


End file.
